


Too Sick To Work

by luthien82



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Spoilers, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-01
Updated: 2012-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-08 22:33:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/448277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luthien82/pseuds/luthien82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a rule, Clint didn’t get sick. He just wasn’t wired that way, not even when he’d still been a kid. He was therefore completely unprepared when he woke up one morning with a stuffy nose, a horribly sore throat and a headache so bad that even a hangover produced by Natasha’s vodka was child’s play in comparison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Sick To Work

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chatona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chatona/gifts).



> Second of three fics I wrote for **chatona** to get her through a crappy week. Thanks for looking over this one as well, honey!
> 
>  **Edit:** Now with [Chinese Translation](http://www.mtslash.com/viewthread.php?tid=58722&pid=1072215&page=1&extra=#pid1072215) (entry is locked).
> 
> DISCLAIMER: The Avengers is the property of Marvel Studios, Paramount Pictures, Joss Whedon and a whole lot of other people who are not me. No money is being made by the creation of this piece of fan work. No harm is intended, it's all in good fun.

* * *

As a rule, Clint didn’t get sick. He just wasn’t wired that way, not even when he’d still been a kid. Maybe it was all the outdoor activities or the fact that he’d always had to rely on himself, he wasn’t sure. But it was a fact that, if something got him into the hospital, it had to be something close to a life threatening chest wound.

He was therefore completely unprepared when he woke up one morning with a stuffy nose, a horribly sore throat and a headache so bad that even a hangover produced by Natasha’s vodka was child’s play in comparison. He opened his eyes blearily, barely able to keep them open they felt so gummy, and stared at the ceiling of his bedroom. The thought of moving out of bed, of moving, _period_ , made him whimper. What the fuck?

He decided to doze for another few precious moments, trying to get his uncooperative body into gear, but he must’ve fallen back asleep again because the next thing he registered was his phone ringing. His eyes snapped open, sending a sharp stab of pain through his skull. He hissed, but rolled to the side anyway until he could grab the phone from his bedside table.

“’lo?” he mumbled when he picked up. His voice sounded just as terrible as his throat felt.

There was a brief silence on the other end and Clint was this close to hanging up or just falling back asleep when someone cleared their throat. “Are you sick?”

Shit! That was Coulson. Clint shot up in bed, remembering that he’d had a meeting scheduled this morning with his handler, a meeting for which he was probably late. And yep, a quick look at his alarm clock told him that he should’ve been in that meeting twenty minutes ago. It was a small wonder that Coulson had waited this long to call.

“Barton?”

Clint must’ve drifted off in his head. Coulson sounded like he’d said his name several times at this point. “’m up, sorry sir,” he rasped, wincing when he swallowed and his throat tightened up in pain. God, this was _horrible_. Maybe he should just shoot himself, put himself out of his misery. Wasn’t that what they did with animals?

“You didn’t answer my question, agent,” Coulson said in his ear. Was it just Clint’s imagination, or did the man sound concerned?

“Question?” Clint asked. He’d totally forgotten what they’d been talking about a minute ago. God, he was just so _tired_ and all he wanted to do was go back to sleep. He didn’t really see a problem with that, so he sank back into the pillows and closed his eyes while Coulson was talking at him. Clint had no idea what the man was saying, but his voice was oddly soothing.

“This is pointless,” Coulson suddenly said and hung up. Clint, a little disappointed that the voice was gone, let his phone slide from his hand, pulled his covers over his head and went back to sleep.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out, but he was woken by a cool hand on his forehead, stroking carefully over his heated skin. It felt so fantastic that he couldn’t help the small moan escaping his sore throat.

“Clint?” he heard someone ask who was definitely not Natasha. She was the only one these days who addressed him by his first name, but this person was not Natasha. He opened his eyes just enough to see the man leaning over him, identifying him as Coulson. Huh. When had he gotten here?

Clint tried to mumble something in return that was supposed to be a greeting, maybe some form of acknowledgement, but it came out garbled and only made his throat hurt more. He coughed, making himself wince, then pressed his face into his pillow. A hand on his shoulder turned him back around and prevented him from falling back asleep.

“Take these,” he heard Coulson say, and he opened his eyes to squint at him. There were two pills in Coulson’s right hand and he was reaching for a glass of water with his other. Then he was looking expectantly at Clint who wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do.

Oh, right. Take the pills. He reached for them, popped them into his mouth, then took the proffered water and downed it carefully, trying to ignore the stabbing pain from his throat with every swallow. As soon as he’d finished the glass, Coulson took it from him and gently pressed him back into the pillows. “Rest some more, I’m going to make you some tea.”

Clint raised a hand to wave weakly at him, then let it plop back down on the bed and almost instantly dozed off.

It went on like that for most of the day, with Clint waking up every time Coulson shook him awake and insisted he drink something. At one point he even fed him a chicken broth, which Clint was sure would’ve been tasty if he’d been able to taste anything. But then came the shivering, and no matter how tightly Clint nestled down into his covers, he just couldn’t stay warm.

“You’re running a fever,” Coulson said from somewhere above him, his hand back on Clint’s forehead. When he took it away Clint whimpered and made a weak grab for it, but it was gone and wouldn’t come back, would never come back. He felt shitty and alone and he just wanted to die.

Then something soft plopped down on him, followed by another soft thump. He opened his eyes and saw Coulson spread two more blankets over Clint’s shivering form. “It’s not dangerously high right now,” Coulson was saying while he smoothed down the covers. “So let’s see if we can’t keep you warm. I might have to give you a sponge bath later if it gets too high though.”

Clint could hear the edge of humor in Coulson’s voice and smiled. Well, he hoped his muscles had translated it into a smile, he sure wanted to smile at the man.

“Worse things ‘n th’t,” he rasped out, burrowing deeper into his cover fort. His eyes fell shut and he was asleep within moments.

He wasn’t sure if that sponge bath ever became a reality. He’d had some weird dreams about Coulson lifting him up and running a cool cloth all over him while he told him funny little stories about a boy in a Midwestern town playing at Captain America until he was fourteen. And then someone in a red-and-gold metal suit came and took Clint away, up into the clouds and flying with him over the Hudson River until they were on the Moon, having adventures just like Captain America. It was all a little strange and confusing, but oddly fun.

When he woke up clear headed for the first time all day, it was the middle of the night. He still had a sore throat and a stuffy nose, but his body didn’t feel like it weighed a ton and his eyes didn’t fall shut again the moment he opened them. His headache was gone as well.

It was dark in his bedroom, but he was sure that someone was there. He could hear them breathe, even though someone without his skills probably wouldn’t have been able to tell. He let his eyes adjust to the darkness, then took a quick look around the room. He finally spotted Coulson in the corner, sitting in a chair with his arms crossed and his head down, chin resting on his chest, fast asleep. He looked tired and worn out and something strange happened in Clint’s chest at the sight.

He must’ve made some sort of noise, because Coulson’s head suddenly came up and his eyes were open, immediately trained on Clint’s. They stared at each other for a beat, then Coulson stood up and came over to the bed. He didn’t switch on any lights, much to Clint’s relief.

“How are you feeling?” Coulson asked, his hand pushing Clint’s hair off his forehead to rest it there and feel his temperature. Clint’s eyes closed briefly, soaking up the unexpected human contact, before he said with some difficulty, “Like crap, sir.”

A smile tugged at the edges of Coulson’s mouth and his hand slid away when he straightened back up. “You’re on the mend,” he said confidently. “There’s some more water on your bedside table. Drink it.”

Clint did as he was told, then sank back into the pillows. His eyes got droopy again. Wow, being sick was no fun at all, he would almost prefer the sucking chest wounds to this type of crap. He let out a deep breath and watched Coulson walk back to the chair. Huh. Clint would’ve expected the man to leave, now that Clint wasn’t in immediate danger of dying. But no, he sank back into the chair, crossed his arms and seemed to settle back in for the night.

“Sir?” Clint asked, tired and confused and not a little touched at how much Coulson seemed to _care_.

Coulson just looked at him and shook his head. “Go back to sleep, Clint.”

“Y’ssir,” he mumbled into his pillow and let his eyes fall shut.


End file.
